Sound of Madness
by idoalmyownmakeup
Summary: What am I supposed to say? "Oh, don't mind me Rick, I'm just your average college-aged woman who happens to be lusting over your son. No big deal." Yeah, I'm sure that'll go over well. Request fic. Carl/OC. Pedophilia.
1. Chapter 1

Author's note: Hello fanfiction dwellers! This particular story is a bit different from what I would normally write, but as per request by my dearest **OnyxSkys**, here you have it. First, I do not, have not, and will never condone any form of child abuse or molestation. This is purely a work of fiction and may be triggering to some people.

**Warning: Contains graphic sexual situations, pedophilia, gore and descriptions of suicide. **

On with the story!

* * *

Stumbling into the prison was an accident. I was aiming for the state of Nevada, so how the fuck I ended up in Georgia was beyond me. My mother did always tell me I had no sense of direction, but it wasn't until the world went to shit and the dead started walking that I learned how true that really was.

The Creepers had been on me for quite a while when I crested the hill that had been hiding the sanctuary from my eyes. I was tired, weaponless, and running on nothing but pure adrenaline, so when I saw those high, barbed fences, all I could think about was getting behind them. I had no clue there were people there, despite the fact that they were all meandering about the prison yard, going about their daily activities. And the thought that I'd be flying headfirst into a Creeper trap never even crossed my mind. I was desperate.

It was Glenn that saw me first—that made the decision to open the gate, against the will of Rick who, after losing his wife, was more than willing to let me get ripped apart for the sake of his group. It was like running track in high school—which I never did—but I was neck-and-neck with a particularly rambunctious Creeper who seemed to have no interest in grabbing at me until the last minute. And he almost succeeded, getting a handful of my loose, gray hoodie before one well-aimed shot took him down.

Then I was behind the fence, and the dead were clawing at it like mindless savages, making those horrible, wheezing snarls in the backs of their throats. It wasn't until that moment that I saw Carl, feet shoulder width apart, stance solid, gun still raised.

"Shit," I muttered, hands on my knees, gasping for breath, "Kid, you've got some damn good aim."

Carl lowered his gun, tipped his sheriff's hat up, and grinned at me—all teeth and blinding cerulean eyes and freckled cheeks, brimming with confidence and self-assurance without a single hint of arrogance.

I think it was then, in those sparse few seconds, when I felt the fire that I had so long ago forgotten ignite within my veins, that I knew I had just damned myself to hell.

* * *

"So, Katie, how old are you?"

It's been a little over a week since I pretty much trampled my way into the group's lives. Beth has taken to the baby, Sophia Carol Andrea Amy Lori Little Ass-Kicker Walsh-Grimes (or Judith), and right now is holder her on a bony hip while preparing a new bottle of formula. I'm on washing duty, and scrubbing a pair of what I believe to be Daryl's jeans, and pretending like I'm a perfectly normal human being and not a monster in disguise.

"Twenty-one," I answer. "You?

"Seventeen."

I realize that I like Beth's voice. It has a soft, almost airy quality to it, and paired with her platinum hair and wide blue gaze, she reminds me of Evanna Lynch in her role of Luna Lovegood.

"What were you doing before…this?" she asks, moving little Sophia into her arms to feed her.

My heart leaps into my throat and my stomach drops into my feet, and I clear my throat in hopes that my sudden overwhelming dread will go unnoticed.

"This, as in being here in the prison, or this as in the world ending?"

"Both?" the blonde chuckles softly.

"Well, before the prison, I was aiming for Nevada and somehow got really turned around and ended up here. I think I spent a lot of time in Tennessee, scavenging and hiding out in people's houses and all that, but I'm not really sure. It could have been Kentucky."

"You've been traveling alone this whole time?"

"Yeah. I've met a few people along the way, but none of them were too…friendly to say the least. There was nobody I could stick with and feel safe about it."

"That sounds so lonely…"

"It wasn't all that bad. Scary at times, but I think that's why I wasn't lonely. I was too scared to think about it."

Carl walks into the makeshift kitchen/laundry area right as I finish my sentence, and his eyes dart quickly between me and Beth, as if there's a question weighing heavily on his mind.

"Hey, Beth?" he asks, "Hershel needs someone to sit with him while he goes through all our medical supplies. Will you do it?"

"Sure."

And just like that, with one simple question, Beth is gone and Carl and I are alone.

I have to remind myself to breathe.

I'm almost certain that I've been washing the same spot on the left leg of Daryl's jeans for a good three minutes, first distracted by the blonde's questions and now by mere presence of the young Grimes. I can see out of the corner of my eye that he hasn't moved from his place in the doorway, but he makes no effort to start a conversation.

After a few more agonizing seconds, I stop what I'm doing, sigh, and sit up straight. _It's okay, _I reassure myself. _You're fine. Just talk. You're fine. It's all fine. Everything's fine. _

"You okay, Carl?" I question, and if there was a way to high-five myself for incredible nonchalance, I would have done it then and there.

He doesn't answer right away, but he does avert his gaze to fidget with a loose string on the hem of his white t-shirt. For the first time since I got here, he's missing his coveted sheriff's hat, letting his hair fall around his face and neck like a halo. I feel a flicker of that fire again, and I focus on the spot above his right shoulder, afraid to look for too long.

"Katie…do you…" he pauses and drops his hands back to his sides. "Do you not like me?"

"Do I not like you?" I repeat, baffled.

"Yeah…" He doesn't raise his head.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean…you seem to get along with everyone, like talking to them and doing chores and stuff…but you never…seem to want to be around me."

Oh.

"Did I do something wrong?" His eyes lock onto mine, and my world immediately tunnels down to those two bright orbs, both framed by a set of thick, dark lashes that no boy should be allowed have, and between his voice and his expression, I don't know which one is pleading more.

The words of reason in my mind have taken a backseat to my body's impulsive response, and before I know it I'm on my feet standing in front of the troubled adolescent.

"No, Carl. You didn't do anything wrong," I place a hand on his shoulder. "I promise. It's just me. I don't…have the best history with kids. I'm not as…" I stop, searching for the right phrase, "nurturing…as I should be."

"Daryl's not nurturing, but he still talks to me."

"I don't know, I've seen him with that baby. I think he's more caring than he lets on," I joke, thinking back on all the times I've seen the redneck tend to his "Little Ass-Kicker." Carl grins, and I notice that a few of his teeth slant slightly towards one another in the way that all new adult teeth do for the first few years growing in.

"Yeah. It's not like I'm really a _kid _though. I'm twelve. And I'll be thirteen soon."

_That's the problem, _I think.

"So, you want to be friends?" I ask, the words coming out on their own before my lips can stop them.

"Yeah," Carl brightens up until he's practically glowing. "You seem cool."

I laugh.

"Not nearly as cool as you. I still remember that kick-ass headshot that saved my life, you know."

_Jesus Christ, Katie, shut up, _I scold, clearly recognizing the hole I'm digging myself into and recalling it all too well.

Carl breathes on the nails of one hand and polishes them on his shirt, tossing his head back in mock cockiness.

"What can I say? I'm a pro."

We laugh together now, and for the second time in less than nine days, I remind myself that I'm going to hell.

* * *

"Can I try?" Carl asks, gesturing to the cigarette poised between my fingers with a nod. I shake my head and take another drag. They're Marlboro Menthols, not my brand, nor my flavor, but it's all Glenn brought back and not even a year ago they were two dollars more expensive than what I would buy. In a weird kind of way, I felt like a classy motherfucker.

"Your Daddy would kill me," I say as I exhale a torrent of smoke through my nose.

"He doesn't have to know."

"Oh, he'll know. Good parents are weird like that."

"Did your parents know when you started?"

I let out a dry "Ha!" before clearing my throat. "My dad gave me my first cigarette."

"Really?" Carl's brow furrows under the brim of his hat. "How old were you?"

"Ten, I think."

"Ten?!"

"Mmhm," I hum, recalling the image of my father as I saw him most, in his boxers and passed out face-down on our flea-infested couch. "I didn't have good parents like you, Carl. My Dad came home drunk one Christmas morning and saw me sitting in the living room," I reach over and slap the youth between the shoulder blades a few times, "and he pat me hard on the back like this, then tossed me a pack of Winstons and said, 'Merry Christmas, Katie-bug! Smoke up!' And that's how I started. He did the same to both my sisters on their birthdays, and my brother was probably younger than ten considering I wasn't even born yet. It's like Dad's tradition."

"A really messed up tradition," Carl mutters with wide eyes.

I fake a thick southern accent, "Damn straight, son."

The conversation dies down, and I take another lungful of chemicals while the young Grimes stares.

"You still want to try, don't you?" It's more of a statement than a question.

Carl just chews at his lower lip before nodding, a hint of a smile on his face.

In the six weeks since we agreed to be friends, he finally seems to have figured out that I can't say 'no' to him, no matter how outrageous the request. One particular incident that ended with the two of us and an entire cell covered in soggy instant oatmeal comes to mind.

I sigh in defeat.

_Fuck, Rick's gonna shoot me._

"Don't tell your Dad," is all I say as hold the cigarette out to him. He takes it between two fingers, mimicking me and snickering.

"Is this what you meant when you said you're not the nurturing type?"

_No, _I think.

"Yeah," I say. "I'm a bad example."

His lips part to take the filter between them, and I watch, completely spellbound, as the tip of his tongue glides across his front teeth.

The fire didn't flicker this time.

It fucking roared.

Then, just like I expected, Carl inhales and promptly chokes, sputtering out clouds of gray smoke with body-quaking force.

"Oh God," he groans between coughs, "That's horrible! Why do you do that?!"

I laugh.

"Nicotine," I reply, taking the quickly diminishing cancer stick back and ignoring the flames kindled by the brush of skin against skin as our hands touch. "It's what makes these things so addictive. You get used to it. Well, _you _shouldn't."

"I _won't. _Jeez, Katie, is it even worth it?"

"Is for me. I haven't been able to quit since I got my first nicotine high."

"Nicotine high?"

"It's like…a head-rush that you get after you've shotgunned or smoked too much. But once you become a regular smoker, it's almost impossible to have one. It was awesome when I started though."

"What's a shotgun?"

I squint for a moment, taking in his genuinely curious expression and relaxed stance.

"You wanna try it?" I offer. "If you can take another breath-full of smoke, that is."

_Why the fuck did you just do that? _

Carl shrugs.

"Sure, I guess."

"Alright.C'mere, you have to be close to me."

_Just digging that hole deeper, aren't you, Katie?_

I lean forward in my seat and rest my elbows on my knees as Carl sets his hat on the ground and approaches, leaving less than a foot of distance between the dirt-stained toes of our ragged shoes.

"Now, this is how you shotgun: I take a drag off of this," I hold up the cigarette, "and then when I breathe out, you inhale the smoke. Try not to cough, and hold it in your lungs for a sec, okay? Then, after you exhale, take a deep breath. That'll give you a head-rush. Sound good?"

"Okay. But don't I have to be really close to your face to breathe in the smoke you're breathing out?"

The voice in my head is begging me to _take it back, take it back, tell him you can't, tell him you're sick, tell him he'll get cancer, just PLEASE take it back! _

"Pretty much nose-to-nose," I answer.

It's such a shame I was never very good at listening.

I take one last pull from the filter before flicking it off the watchtower, a subconscious gesture that declares, 'It's now or never.' And surprisingly, Carl dips in without the slightest bit of hesitation.

_Don't touch him._

Slowly, I move to cradle the back of his head with one hand, threading my fingers through his damp, freshly washed hair while my other gently presses against a baby-soft cheek. I tilt his head slightly and pull him closer until our lips are almost touching. If this isn't a perfect imitation of kiss, then I don't know what is.

His palms are resting on the sides of my jean-clad legs, and he squeezes lightly, and the searing heat that floods my veins melts my humanity and dyes my vision red.

I am a monster.

Lust personified.

We stare, eyes at half-mast, and I'm sure that my pupils are blown to pure shadow, hiding all traces of brown that my irises truly are.

_Just like a demon._

Hopefully Carl's too young to know what it means.

He squeezes my legs again, and I take the hint and gradually exhale, relishing the feel of his breath on my lips as he inhales steadily, just like I told him to.

"Hold," I say, voice throaty and a tad gruff. The sound of it terrifies me, but not enough to douse the flames or calm my heart. He listens, holding the smoke in his lungs and straightening his head in my hands. But he doesn't move away.

"Breathe out," I murmur.

He exhales, sending shimmering waves of smoke floating about our heads.

"Deep breath in."

His pupils dilate and he tightens his grip on me before sinking down to his knees.

"Whoa," he gasps.

"Head-rush," I grin.

He's leaning back now, moving to lay flat on the floor, and I can't choose whether to be ecstatic or disappointed as I release him.

"Everything's spinning," he laughs.

"Isn't it great?"

"I don't know yet. Great or horrible, one of the two."

_It's hard to decide sometimes, isn't it?_

"Yeah, a lot of things work that way."

Carl props his weight onto his elbows and lifts his head, cocking it to rest on his left shoulder. He smiles.

And for the third time, I remind myself I'm going to hell.

* * *

"Carl…are you okay?" I ask, worriedly glancing at the boy who'd been staring into nothing with wide, blank eyes for the better part of ten minutes. He blinks.

"What?" He turns his head to look at me.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah…" He draws the word out, sounding both hesitant and confused.

"What happened?" I prod, scooting next to him on the watchtower floor, but leaving a good fourteen inches between us despite the urge to be shoulder-to-shoulder. Carl sighs.

"I…kind of…"

"Kind of what?"

"I kind of…walked in on Maggie and Glenn," he admits, cheeks gradually flushing as he turns his head away. I can't hold back the hysterical laughter that bursts out of mouth, especially as Carl's cheeks flame brighter and he buries his face in his hands.

"Sorry," I snort between chuckles. "Did they see you?"

"No," he mutters, voice muffled. "I just went in and ran back out."

I laugh even harder—the kind of laughter that makes your stomach clench with pain—and by this point I'm sure my face is redder than Carl's.

"It's not funny," he whines as he kicks my foot with his own.

"It's hilarious!"

He groans and slumps forward. I pat him on the back.

"Are you traumatized?" I tease after taking a few deep breaths, only to dissolve into another fit of giggles.

"Probably…" he sighs, "Are you done yet?"

"Ahaha, shit." I wipe underneath my eyes where a few tears have formed. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm done." He turns and peeks through his fingers at me. "They need to find better places to hide, don't they?"

"Yes. For the sake of all of us. Carol's seen 'em before too."

I throw my head back and let out a loud, "Ha!"

He drops his hands back to his lap and cocks an eyebrow at me.

"You have a bad sense of humor, Katie," he states.

"So I've heard."

"From who?"

"Hahaha, almost everyone I've ever met, kid." I lift the hat off Carl's head and ruffle his hair before putting it back, knowing how much he hates it when someone does that.

"Ack! Katieeee," he cries, "Don't!"

I throw him a grin as he adjusts his hat the way he likes it best and ruffles his bangs.

"Carl, did you ever get 'The Talk'?"

"Yeah, I got The Talk," He leans back up against the wall and diverts his eyes to his shoes. "It took Dad a few tries to make it through the whole thing, but I got it."

_Don't._

"Was that the first time you'd seen something like that?"

He shifts uncomfortably.

"In person," he admits, guiltily. "I've…seen things before…on the internet."

"Ahh, the internet. Home and gateway to all knowledge and information." I laugh again. "Don't look so scared, anyone who says they haven't looked or thought about porn is lying. Even people like Beth. It's human nature, you know."

Carl sighs in relief, falling out of the tense form he had taken and relaxing his shoulders.

"You thought I was going to be mad, didn't you?" I ask.

"Kind of," he smiles, turning his cerulean gaze to me. "My dad would lose it if he found out."

"I think he'd be more freaked out than angry. Nobody likes to admit that their kids are growing up. After all, you're almost a teenager now. Teens and sex and curiosity go hand-in-hand."

"Then why does everyone act like it's some big, hidden secret?"

"Hmm," I pull my legs up to me and wrap my arms around my knees. "I think it just makes a lot of people uncomfortable. Especially if they're religious or grew up in a small town where nobody talked about that kind of thing. Some religions say sex is a sin. Others say you can only have sex in order to have children, and that you can only be with one person for your entire life. I don't believe that. It's personal, yeah, but I don't believe in hiding it or acting like it's wrong. Next to life and death, sex is the most natural thing in this world. All animals do it in order to produce offspring, and how different are we from animals, really?"

"I like the way you think," Carl says. "I wish more people saw it that way."

"I think that as the world changes, they will. In time."

Suddenly, the youth moves, crawling on his hands and knees before sitting cross-legged in front of me, looking nervous for the second time.

"Katie…can I ask you a question?"

"You just did, but sure."

"How old were you when you had your first kiss?"

"My first kiss?" I think back—back to the baseball field and the blonde I was with. She was a pretty girl, Shannon. My best friend in elementary school despite the vast difference in our social classes and our parent's mutual dislike for one another. Sometimes I was jealous; jealous of her beautiful new clothes, of her long, healthy hair, her bright grey eyes. I never found out if I wanted _her_ or if I wanted _to be _her. She kissed me first, right there where anyone could see after she found out her family was moving to New York at the start of summer. I was so anxious by the brush of her lips that I almost passed out. In fact, I may have for a moment, because my vision went black. We never saw each other again after that.

"Eight or nine," I finally answer. "My best friend kissed me, and I was so scared I barely remember it."

"_Really?_ You were _that_ young?" he questions incredulously.

"Mmhmm."

"Did you like him?"

"Actually, it was a her." I fight the urge to chuckle at the boy's surprised face. "And I'm not sure. I never figured that out. She moved away a few days later."

"Wow…" is all he says. I nudge his knee with my foot.

"What about you?"

Carl's cheeks begin to pink, but not as vibrantly as when he confessed about Maggie and Glenn.

"I…haven't."

That genuinely surprises me. Carl is such a sweet kid, intelligent, and—

_Stop while you're ahead. _

"Why not?

He plays with the hem of his shirt, a fidgeting habit that I've noticed he only does when he's unsure of himself.

"I just haven't. I thought about Sophia…before the barn."

"What about Beth? Everyone—and by everyone, I mean Carol and Hershel—seems to think you're sweet on her."

"I was, for a little while. But she's…Beth. We're too…" he gestures with his hands like he's trying to grab words out of the air.

"Different?" I offer.

"Yeah, we're too different. I mean, she's pretty…but sometimes pretty isn't good enough, you know? We're not even friends. What am I supposed to do, stare at her for the rest of my life?"

I chuckle.

"You're different, Carl." I say.

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

"Good. Most boys don't care what's in a girl's head or what they have in common with you. They care about how physical attraction, and do just that—stare for the rest of their lives. It's good that you're smart enough to see past the outside. Beauty fades, people grow old. That outer appearance…it doesn't last forever. If you fall in love with a girl, fall in love with her mind and her heart, not just her body."

Carl peeks up at me through his eyelashes and rubs the back of his neck bashfully.

"Alright…Thanks, Katie. I think."

"Sorry, I got a little off topic again, didn't I?" It was one of my worst tendencies, and also, one of the hardest to break.

"Yeah, but that's okay, I'm starting to get used to it."

It was true. In the two weeks since a particular cigarette incident, and eight weeks into our friendship, Carl's adapted to conversations going from one thing to another faster than machinegun fire and has even learned how to respond. When things are especially bad, it's not uncommon for a conversation to go from Walkers, to school, to owls, to Carl, to monopoly, to hair dye, to Titanic, back to Carl, to the Pythagorean Theorem, to me, to thermonuclear fusion, and back to Walkers again in less than half an hour. I can't help it. Sometimes I just have the attention span of a flea.

"Yes you are, but as you were saying?"

As soon as the words dance off my tongue, my blood runs cold.

There it is—the look. That fucking look. The same fucking look that tells me I'm about to get wrapped up in some crazy shit that I know is wrong but that goddamn fire won't let me say no to because seeing Carl disappointed or upset is the equivalent of being skinned alive on the scale of unbearable pain. He's got his hands on his calves, his shoulders shrugged upwards while his head tilts downward so the only way to see me is through those dark, long lashes. His lower lip is caught between his teeth, and he's kneading it with just a hint of a grin on his cheeks.

"Katie," he starts, and that fire that's been flickering ever since I sat next to him on the dirty watchtower floor roars stronger and brighter than ever before; even more than when I held his face so close to mine and blew those toxic fumes into his lungs, as I spy the deep cherry red of his lower lip and the subtle slick shine of saliva caused by his none-too-gentle gnawing. I swallow. Hard.

_Breathe. Calm down. Breathe. _

"You're my best friend," he continues. I furrow my brow in confusion. "When everyone is treating me like I'm five, you sit with me and talk to me like I'm twenty instead of twelve. You're not afraid to say things like they are, but at the same time, you always listen to me when I…whine about stuff." He scowls slightly at the last three words, like he had just taken a bite out of something too bitter for his tastebuds.

_Why is he telling me this?_

"And whenever I have a stupid idea, you help me anyway even though we usually get in trouble. You're always giving me the benefit of the doubt."

_Scared, scared, scared, scared, scared…_

"That was beautiful Carl…but where are you going with this?" I inquire seriously, burrowing my fear deep inside where, hopefully, he'll never find it. He sighs.

"I'm twelve," He says

"Yeah."

"Almost thirteen."

"Yes, you are."

He bites his lip again and rubs what I assume to be sweaty palms on his jeans before taking his sheriff's hat off.

"Katie…"

Realization hits me like a herd of Walkers on a rampage.

_Oh God No! No, I know what this is! No, no, no, no, no! Don't say it! Please don't say it!_

"Can I…can I kiss you?"

My mind is screaming—screeching so loudly that my ears start to ring. I can feel my rapid pulse beneath my skin, can feel my heart pounding in my chest, can feel the fire, black fire, urging me to do it, take the plunge, _**what could it hurt? **_

_Everything._

"Carl…" I murmur. "I'm twenty-one. I'm _nine years _older than you." Sure, maybe we're almost the same height—my 5'3 to his 5'1—and maybe I have a questionable, childish sense of humor, and maybe we spend almost every second of every day together, but I'm an ADULT and he's a CHILD.

_**Didn't stop you before, did it? **_

"I know…but I'm not close to anyone like I am with you. Please, Katie? Just once? No one will ever have to know."

_Yeah…just once. We know how that goes. _

I close my eyes, and breathe slowly, trying not to tremble with the force of the conflict taking place inside my head.

_**Just give in. You'll end up doing it anyway. All you're killing is time. **_

"Once…and only once."

_NO! Take it back, Katie, take it back!_

Carl blushes but brightens instantly, sealing my fate with a dazzling smile.

"Okay!" he chirps.

I sigh and release my legs, sliding on the floor until we're knee-to-knee.

_I'm going to hell._

"Know how to do this…?" I mutter softly, slowly leaning in until our lips are a hairs-width away, keeping my eyes locked on his and acknowledging with heavy dread that his irises are hardly blue anymore—eclipsed by the inky black of his pupils.

"No idea…" he breathes.

I reach up to cradle his chin between my thumb and pointer finger.

_A quick peck, nothing else. _

"Just close your eyes, relax, and follow my lead."

He listens, and I let my lids flutter shut as I close that small gap between us until our lips touch. It's only a short pucker and release, no more than three seconds, or at least…it started out that way, but still all that I am—all that I ever was—is gone, replaced by this monster engulfed in flames. His mouth is warm, his skin soft, and I have to fight down the purr rising up in the back of my throat.

Carl nuzzles his nose against mine in a sweet Eskimo kiss as our lips part with a quiet "smack," while at the same time resting a searing palm against my knee that does nothing but make my head spin. I can't help it. I really can't. I wrap my arms around him, reminiscent of our last tirade in the watchtower, one hand on a flawless cheek, the other entwined in his now filthy dark hair. My legs fall out of their folded position and lay so that Carl is between them, and he leans up a fraction, distracting me from the sudden move from knee to thigh accompanied by a second palm against my waist.

_I'm going to hell._

Our second kiss was firmer, but still slow and gentle, as if the monster inside me was testing the waters, waiting for him to pull away, to push me back, to tell me to stop. He doesn't. In fact, he presses against me a tiny bit harder, mimicking my actions perfectly, gradually parting his lips until what we were doing could no longer be called a simple kiss.

_**How far…?**_

Carl pauses for a gasp of air.

"Breathe through your nose," I murmur, waiting to feel the brush of his exhale against my face before pulling that taunting lower lip into my mouth, tugging it lightly before sealing us together again. He shivers, and I tighten my grip on his hair as he squeezes my thigh, sending a flash of lightening thundering through my body, coursing through my veins, and settling inside my core. Can I…?

_**How far…?**_

Carl's the one that initiates the next move—slowly slipping his tongue out and running it carefully across the seam of my lips. I do purr this time, deep and throaty, as that telltale wetness begins to form below my waist and Carl back tracks, tracing his tongue across again in the opposite direction. Before he can retract the slick muscle, I slide mine out and drag it against his own. The black behind my eyelids glows red. My hands automatically drop from their position and I hold the back of his neck, cradling the base of his head with my fingertips as I yank him closer to me—until he has to unthread his legs and rest them against my own, until my too large breasts brush against his chest, until he has to move his palm from my thigh to the other side of my waist.

_**How far…?**_

I tease Carl's tongue into following mine, pulling it into my mouth and sealing my lips around it whilst simultaneously pressing them to his with feverish desire. He timidly explores, caressing each curve, each muscle, each and every nook and cranny, until I can't stand the torture anymore and I roll his tongue over mine and suck. Hard. The groan that rumbles up from his chest is more than worth the wait.

_**How far…will he let you go?**_

_Sweet. _He tastes so fucking _sweet. _Sweeter than any candy, any dessert, any forbidden fucking fruit ever could. Carl Grimes is a drug. A mind-altering, lust inducing drug. All it takes is one hit, one _taste_, and you're a hopeless addict, craving his kiss, craving his touch. Even now, I want more. I _need _more. So, I take more. Or, at least I try to.

While our lips are parted, but before I can slink my own muscle into the cavern of his mouth, Carl breaks my hold on him as he dips down and presses that wicked tongue against the hollow of my throat and trails upwards, licking a stripe all the way to my chin. Then, he bites, or rather grazes—just the scrape of teeth on skin—at my pulse point and we're falling…

…_falling…falling…_

…until Carl's on his back, looking up at me with dark, coy eyes as I hover over him, my forearms on either side of his head holding the brunt of my weight. Our legs are tangled together in a pattern—his, mine, his, mine—and I feel a subtle twitch, a nudge of hardness against the bone of my hip, and everything is happening so fast and all the good in me is gone, banished by the voice of the monster that promises _it's okay, it's okay, just…_

_**Do it…**_

I whimper, and Carl clutches me tighter, as if he can sense the war inside my soul.

**Do it…**

**Do. It.**

**DO IT!**

So, I do it. I listen, and throw myself into the flames—flames that burn brighter but darker with each passing second. The flames of hell, of oblivion.

My mouth drops to the youth's throat, seemingly starved, completely ravenous as I kiss and lick and bit and suck, stopping only to swallow the delicious sounds of his gasps with my lips. I tangle my fingers in his hair again, pulling tight, distracting him as my right arm drifts downwards, down to that hardness, down to that place that _nobody _has the right to touch.

"Hnng!" Carl's body arches when I grasp him, and I can see the slight bob of his Adam's apple as he throws his head back.

_**Beautiful…**_

This. I could get off on just this. Just holding him, hearing him…Carl Grimes…He's perfect.

_Better than…_

"Katie! Carl!"

_Better than…_

It's Maggie's voice hollering from the ground below the tower. Carl and I snap apart as if we had been electrocuted, both going from the floor to our feet in less than a blink of an eye. I rush to the door, throwing it open and blinding myself with slowly fading sunlight as I shout back.

"Yeah?!"

"Dinner!" is all she says, one hand shading her eyes, the other on her hip, before turning and walking away. My body quakes with relief, making my knees weak, and for a moment I think they might actually give out. I look over my shoulder—look at the boy there, staring at me with shiny eyes and kiss swollen lips. His hair is disheveled, his hat now in his hands. Dread drops like lead into my stomach.

_Better than…_

"Well…" I start, running a hand through my hair and looking down at the floor. "Umm…" What am I supposed to say? "That should hold you off until your mid to late teens time for dinner let's go Carl!" The words come out in a rush, sounding like one big, smashed together sentence, but I don't care. Because my heart is pounding. My vision is blurry. I think I might puke.

_Better than…_

Tears burn behind my eyes as Carl follows me down into the prison yard.

_Elliot ever was…_

I'm going to hell.

* * *

Author's note: So…what did you lovely readers think of Part One? As you can tell, Katie is an ambiguous character, and I offer you no description of her looks and very little of her past. That may change in Part Two depending on feedback. Speaking of feedback, I accept all forms of it—constructive criticism, error notifications, hate, love, it doesn't matter. I can has review please? *sad face from a nervous writer*


	2. Reflections of Elliot

Author's Note: Whew! I'm back, my lovely readers. Writing during the holidays with tons of people you barely know but are apparently related to is surprisingly difficult. I'm sorry for taking so long. Good news though! This is no longer a two-shot. So many people requested that this be made into a multi-chapter fic that I couldn't continue with my original plan with a guilt free mind.

Before we get on with the story, thank you to my amazing beta: **AgentBSmith** for helping me with this chapter and every chapter afterward. You're awesome and I love you. And I'd like to thank all my reviewers: **Louis Tomlinson Stole My Pants, Guest ("_I do want to read from Carl's perspective but at the same time I think that wouldn't go with the story that well and Katie's perspective is what makes the story so intriguing._" Thank you very much. It makes me proud to see someone take such an interest in my character, and I'll admit, I'm a bit nervous about writing Carl's side of the story, but it still may be done. We'll have to see how things go.), Crocodile, Guest, Guest, Elli Vaughn (Elli, let me love you. Your review was everything an aspiring writer is looking for. You say what you like, what your curious about, you ask questions and push compliments and motivation so the writers block doesn't hit. I keep reading your words over and over again, just because they make me so happy! :D ), Char ("_As for Carl, I think he really does want to lose his innocence given the world they live in now."_ You have no idea how much this one sentence inspired me and changed my original story line. Thank you.), Anon, KoiChoco, Guest (Thank you. I loved your review. I'm glad somebody caught on to the ambiguity of the situation and focused on Carl despite everything coming from Katie's POV. You made me very happy. :D ), Shano1, BLUENIGHT23, patrishis, Guest (I think if anyone's going to hell, it's me for writing it, lol.), ishotthesheriff23 (Thank you so much! I'm glad you like it, and I'm so sorry for what you went through. And wow, best Carl story...that's quite a complement.), Leyshla Gisel (nothing wrong with a little curiosity. ;P), TheChemicalHugs, OnyxSkys (ASJGGJAFFAF!), ghost, and Guest. **

**Warnings: Pedophilia and child molestation. **

* * *

_The woman that opens the door is gorgeous. Not in that homely, girl-next-door way; but drop-dead model gorgeous. Victoria's Secret gorgeous. She is sunkissed blonde and tan, tall and fit, unquestionably fashionable in her designer clothing. Young, judging by the lack of lines yet stable mobility of her face. What the hell is __**this **__doing in Indiana? Am I at the wrong house? I check the address again. 4704 South Lincoln Avenue. Nope. This is the place._

"_Can I help you, or are you just going to stare at me?" _

_Snooty. Faintly valley-girl. California. _

_Should have guessed. _

"_I'm sorry to bother you Ma'am, but are you by any chance Ms. Heather Collins?" _

"_That's me."_

_I fake a friendly, joyous smile. _

"_My name's Katie, I live on the other side of town. I was just responding to your ad in the paper—says you're looking for a babysitter."_

_Heather seems ready to slam the door in my face. I guess she's lived here long enough to learn that 'the other side of town' really means 'the bad side of town.' What a shame. _

"_I brought a resume," I say quickly, hoping that her desperation will play in my favor. _

_The Dollar General in our area had hit a rough patch and let all the part-time employees go, including me. No job means no money. No money means unpaid bills. Unpaid bills mean no electricity, and no electricity means one extremely pissed off father. So, my only option left is: suck up your pride and go back to your first job. Babysitting._

"_I've worked for plenty of families in this area before. I've been doing it ever since I was just a girl, in fact. I'm good with all children, from infants to teenagers."_

_The woman snatches the sheet of paper from my hand. _

"_What else?" She demands. It's a waste of air—I know the drill._

"_I'm certified in CPR, I've been trained to cook suiting the dietary needs of a person, I am a qualified tutor from first to eighth grade, I speak two different languages—English and French—and I am fluent in American Sign Language. I also worked in housekeeping at the Maryleigh Inn and I was a part-time nanny for almost a year. I have no restricted hours, no requested time off. I can work any day, any time, for as long as you need. On the paper you'll see four different references but I can get up to seven if you'd like more. Should you feel the need to run a background check, Officer Shields down at the police station can help you. His number is on the back. I have no arrests, convictions, warrants, or traffic violations. He can also perform drug testing as you see fit, and I willingly submit myself to all examinations." _

_Heather's eyes lift from the paper and meet mine head-on. _

"_Do you smoke?" she asks, stepping away from the door and walking inside. I assume that it's her way of telling me to follow._

"_Half a pack a day, never indoors, and should your child have an allergy it's a habit I can kick."_

_She guides me through the main floor, passing various rooms with pure oak floorboards, dazzling custom wallpaper, vaulted ceilings and crystal chandeliers. It is a stunning home—one that I don't bother being envious of purely because I know I'll never experience anything like it. _

"_There are three floors to the house, five bedrooms, eight bathrooms, two sitting rooms, an entertainment room, and a pool out back. A maid comes twice a week to clean, so there's no need for you to help unless it's to pick up your own mess. My son is nine, almost ten…_

_**Son?**_

_and he is to be awake by seven each morning, on the bus by eight, home at three, homework before dinner, dinner at five—no sweets, period—showered by eight and in bed by nine. On weekends he can't sleep past eleven, lunch is at noon, and he's in bed by ten. No friends over without my permission, no rollerblading in the house, no R rated movies, no violent videogames. You may take him anywhere in the neighborhood you like, so long as you provide the transportation yourself and keep a close eye on him. He'll try to tell you otherwise, but he can't use the computer unless it's for homework and he can't swim if I'm not home."_

_At some point I sat in a cushioned chair at Heather's dining table, eyes wide and mind rapidly absorbing all the information being thrown at me while trying to ignore the numerous 'he, his and him's'._

_Of course the first ad I answer is willing to hire me, and of course it's a job that'll pay good money, and of course she only has one kid to watch—a son at that. Lucky me._

_**God is laughing in your face right now.**_

"_Emergency numbers are on the fridge. You'll be working six days a week, Monday through Saturday from six in the morning to when I get home at night. Sometimes you may have to stay over, so keep that in mind before each shift. I'll pay you three hundred and fifty dollars a week with a holiday bonus if you're as good as you say. You'll start tomorrow. Elliot's up in his room. Go get acquainted with him."_

* * *

"_I thought I wasn't supposed to have sweets," Elliot says, words contradicting his actions as he shovels a spoonful of chocolate ice cream into his mouth. I laugh._

"_What your Mom doesn't know won't hurt her. It'll be our little secret, okay?"_

"_Okay!"_

_I know it's spiteful of me to go against Heather's orders, but the woman is such a raving bitch, I honestly don't care anymore. Elliot is spoiled by way of material possessions, but he is neglected when it comes to affection and attention. I've probably spent more time with him in the past four months than his mother ever did in his entire life. I stay overnight more often than not, I take him to the movies and out with friends, I listen to his exaggerated stories about school events and playground tragedies. And sometimes, for fun, we stay up late and eat candy, watch movies that he's not supposed to see and play videogames he's not supposed to play. I adore him in every way I'm not supposed to—love him more than any adult should love a child. And in loving him, I have learned four things. _

_One: If you tell yourself a family will have a girl, they'll actually have a boy._

_Two: If you tell yourself it doesn't matter that they have a boy because the chances of him fitting your very specific criteria are slim to none, he will end up being everything you've ever desired in human form._

_Three: If you tell yourself that it's okay that he's perfect because he'll probably be the most obnoxious, annoying creature you've ever been unfortunate enough to meet, he will in fact be the sweetest, most innocent person on the face of the planet._

_Four: You are absolutely fucked, and there's nothing you can do about it._

* * *

"_Miss Katie…do you love me?"_

_Water ripples as Elliot leans against the side of the tub, resting his head in the crook of his arm. He's a striking boy, not a day over ten, all gangly limbs and freckled skin—blue eyes and crooked teeth. His white blond hair brushes gently against his spotted shoulders, droplets falling from the strands and catching on his prominent collarbones. We're in the bath together, both naked as the day we were born, and just the sight of him leaves me breathless._

_Do I love him?_

"_More than anything in this world, Elliot. You know that," I whisper. Does he truly? Does he understand the magnitude, the depth, the ferocity of my feelings? Does he see my adoration for him? My lust? My affection? _

_He giggles as he brushes a bare leg against my thigh._

"_Hey…can I tell you a secret?"_

"_Of course you can."_

_Despite the fact that we're only mere inches away from full body contact, the blond gestures for me to move closer. And ever the loyal slave to his command, I obey without a second thought. Our actions are a synchronized dance, a ballet of the most intimate kind. I lean in as he leans back, straighten my knees as he bends his, flatten my palms against his back as he slides into my lap, warm chest pressed against my breasts, forehead resting against my own. We fit together perfectly, like two missing pieces of a puzzle. _

_Elliot sighs and stares hard into my eyes for a moment before muttering,_

"_I love you, too."_

* * *

"_Like this?"_

"_No…here, copy me." My voice is forever patient, my words sickeningly smooth. I sit, one leg straight and a little off to the side, the other bent as if sitting cross-legged. Elliot mimics me before chuckling at my grin of approval. I am disgusting—the worst kind of filth; and my angel doesn't even notice. That's what he is, you know? An angel. Pure. Radiant. A shining light in this dark infinity called life. He is not my first, but he will definitely be my last. _

_I am nineteen. _

"_Will you tell me about them? You promised you would." _

_I did. I don't know why, but I did promise. Elliot gets me to do that; he always has. Until he became the center of my world, I never gave anyone my word. Not my friends, not my family. And certainly not my…_

_**What do you call them?**_

_**Your victims?**_

_**Your boys?**_

"_You sure you want to know?" I tease, savoring the blinding smile—the childish innocence that comes afterward. _

"_Yeah! You promised! You can't take it back!" _

_It's hard remembering what you've tried so hard to forget. _

"_Well…before you," _

_I was eighteen._

"_There was Chris."_

_Blond hair, freckles, blue eyes, age eleven._

"_And before that,"_

_Seventeen._

"_Then there was Rico."_

_Blond hair, freckles, gray eyes, age eight._

"_Liam."_

_Seventeen._

_Brown hair, freckles, blue eyes, age ten._

"_Kai and Eli."_

_Sixteen._

_Twins. God, I loved them. Red hair, freckles, blue eyes, age nine. _

"_Matt."_

_Fifteen._

_Brown hair, blue eyes, age twelve. _

"_Mikey."_

_Thirteen._

_Black hair, blue eyes, age nine._

"_And Asa. Asa was my first."_

_Twelve._

_Black hair, freckles, blue eyes, age six. _

_Nine boys, including Elliot. Nine lives that I know I've ruined. Nine children that will never be the same. _

_After this, never again. I swear to myself, swear on my soul or lack thereof, that I will __**never **__make it ten. _

"_Wow, that many and you love me most?" Elliot asks in astonishment. _

"_Mhmm, more than anyone. And I mean, anyone. My parents. My brothers and sisters. The other boys. I don't love anyone like I love you." I run my fingers through my angel's hair, watching in awe as the blue in his eyes gradually fades, as his chest begins to rise and fall faster with each shuttering breath. Everyone has something that gets them going, some kind of trigger that kick starts that feral switch inside the mind. Mine is youth and boyhood—innocence and inexperience. Elliot's is the one thing he's always been denied: favoritism and love. I know this, and I use it to my advantage, but that doesn't make my declarations any less true. _

"_I love you too, Miss Katie," he whispers. _

_I grasp his hand, twining our fingers together, and guide it down; wrapping it gently around his growing manhood and jerking once before leaning back to my place at the end of the bed. The perfect spot to watch._

"_Then show me…"I murmur. "Show me how much you love me."_

* * *

I didn't actually touch Elliot. Not even once. He was too good—too beautiful—for me to put my hands on him. Instead I was his voyeur, his observer, controlling him with my words and horribly obscene gestures.

**And you loved every minute of it. **

_Did you notice…?_

I can see my reflection in the windowpane; I can see that my eyes are wide, my hair is limp, my skin pale. I look about an inch away from psychosis. I am standing on the line of insanity. And after fourteen days since the watchtower, I remember…

_Did you notice…_

…**that Carl makes Ten?**

* * *

Author's note: I know that it's short, but the next chapter won't be nearly as bad. I wanted to get Elliot into the picture as soon as possible because he is a huge key as to what makes Katie who she is and how she reacts to Carl. Again, reviews of all kinds are welcome. Comments, questions, love or hate. See you next time!


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: Has it really been over a month since I last updated? Really? Are any of you still out there? (I love you, I'm sorry, please don't leave me!) I recently moved across the country to live with my mother, who does not have internet because "computers are the devil" and it's too expensive. Luckily enough, I've managed to find a wonderful library for me to work at, so from now on the updates should be coming much faster. I can never apologize enough for making all of you wait so long and I hope at least a handful of you are still out there.

Reviewer Thanks: First off, again, I would like to thank my wonderful, wonderful beta **AgentBSmith **for putting up with my bullshit and being so patient with me. And all of my reviewers: **Crocodile**** (Thank you so much, and no worries about the review length. I know how bad work can drain a person. It's good to see there's someone out there that sees Katie as what she is: A victim of herself.), ****Leyshla Gisel****, ****6747****, ****Norman Reedus Stole My Pants 0**** (You'll see. :P And oh my GOD I love your username!), ****deelove1**** (You say "person", when yes, she is a person. But what kind of person is she? Do you see only the monster, or can you catch the glimpses of the person inside?), ZombieSlayer (Hahaha, I promise I'm trying on the details. It's a bit difficult to expand what was originally supposed to be a two-shot. My writing style varies with length, so now I have to build off of something I'm not used to.), ****Savannah's Angels****, Char ( Thank you so much! More information on Elliot will come with time, but I'm so glad someone is interested in him rather than just focusing on the main characters! You'll see soon more interactions with various members of the group, because while it's easy to just focus on Katie and Carl, the story wouldn't be complete without the others. As for how many chapters I'm planning on having: I don't know. I just kinda go with the flow.), Anonymous One (Awwwww, you just made me LIAJGOIAJJFAG! I'm actually really glad your curiosity got the better of you. I know the subject of the story is very…unnerving to some people, but it's that curiosity that keeps it going. Thank you so much.), ****happy-in-oz**** ("This is probably one of the most original stories I have read on this website and one of the most well written." Do not make me jump through this computer screen and marry you!), ****Aleyuya**** (It's a little late, but Happy New Year to you too! :P), Guest , ****callmeoctopus****, ****gohan90**** (You would not believe how many messages I have gotten about your comment on Carl and Katie's heights, and I'm being pressured to defend, just please know that I am in no way attacking you. Carl is listed as 4'9 in many articles and information sites. But here's the thing: In the comic, Carl is eight. Is the five foot area anywhere near the average height for a twelve year old? I have no clue. It just sounded right. But I do know the average height for the average woman is roughly 5'5. I myself stand at 5'1. But why does this even matter? I love all my reviewers, but my god, people. Chill. :P As for the rest of the review, your comparison to Dexter is glorious, though I would like to defend that Katie is much, much more than "a crazy molester." She is rounded, and defined: somebody with a history far deeper than her addiction to young boys. We just haven't got there yet. I wrote this with the intention of creating something different, yet still romantic in a way, and definitely nothing as simple as the Carl/Beth genre. There is more going on psychologically than can be defined by only age. All in all, I value you as a reader. You're my push—my devil's advocate, so to speak, and I've always wanted one. I hope you come back for chapter three.), Guest, OMG, ****NormanReedusBitch****, ****Mrstiddlemouse****, and ****Imahica****. Wow. That's a lot of reviews, guys. Keep it up and I'll have to start making separate pages just for acknowledgements. Thank you so much!**

Dedications: I would personally like to dedicate this chapter to **Elli Vaughn **for all her DMs, information and input, and all her questions and support. You are every authors dream reader, and I'm so happy to have you.

Okay! After an obnoxiously long introduction, on with the story!

* * *

I used to think that there was something romantic about self-destruction. I saw it as a beautiful tragedy; a sorrowful, voluntary end to a treasured life. A trigger that forced people to mourn and reflect—to remember the good times and forget the bad. It could create infamy, or make the world a better place. Keep in mind, the key words in all of this are, 'used to think.'

Today had taught me otherwise.

Insanity…it's not like in the movies. There is no detailed composition—no stringed instruments, no greyscale cinematography. It is exactly as the word describes—a lack of sanity. Chaos. Aggression. Hostility. Danger. That's why I'm here now, tied to the bars of the farthest prison cell in the block, glass digging deep into the flesh of my hands and blood trailing rivers down the insides of my arms.

Aren't stitches supposed to stop the bleeding?

"How are you feeling?"

Carol is my watch for tonight, and out of everyone in the group, I'm glad that it's her. She's a gentle woman, a passive mother hen—but she's kind and good company.

"I'm okay, Carol." My voice is raw and deep, and it's painful to swallow let alone speak. Who knew that if you screeched enough, your body would start to mimic strep throat? "Tired," I continue, "but okay."

"Do you want to…talk about what happened?" she asks, raising a hand as if to brush it through my average length hair before dropping it back to her side.

Average.

It's been a long time since I used that word.

On the outside, almost everything about me is average. Slightly average height, average weight, average hair, average skin, average face. Not so average breasts—far too large for my petite frame, but you can't exactly control genetics.

I am a monster in an average shell.

_**You got away with a lot because of it, didn't you? **_

"I…I don't really remember what happened, Carol," I confess—or lie—because there's no way I could forget the truth. Not a second time. "It's like…I was outside of myself. I could see what was happening but I…I couldn't stop it. I really couldn't." I pause to sigh before muttering. "How long will I be tied up here?"

Carol gives me a reassuring pat on the knee.

"Until Rick is sure you're better, honey."

_**Until Rick is sure you won't kill anyone, bitch.**_

But…I'd never do that. I couldn't. I could never take the life of someone in this camp. These people…Rick…Carol…Maggie…Hershel…Glenn…Daryl…Beth…Baby Judith…and Carl…they're my family now. They all know that. Don't they?

_**But you understand...**_

The good of the few outweighs the good of the many.

To put it simply, I scared them.

And if it had been someone else acting the way that I did, hell, I'd probably be scared too. It's not every day somebody you trust loses their mind—crying and screaming, punching things…

_**But not people**_

…breaking windows and slashing their arms with shards of glass, yelling "TEN, TEN, TEN, TEN!" over and over like a mantra or a prayer.

Yeah, I understand why I'm here.

Carol must have seen the blank look of acceptance on my face, because she eases into that soft nurturing mode that we've all come to know her for.

"Katie, everyone has a hard time every now and then. It's okay. Not that long ago, it was Rick that went a little crazy. Times are hard now. We're all seeing things and doing things that I'm sure none of us have ever imagined. Everything will be fine. I bet you'll be free by tomorrow morning."

I give the short haired woman a tiny grin.

"Thank you."

A comfortable silence begins its decent, settling gently like a blanket of mist over an early spring sunrise. And, for the first time in weeks, I feel relaxed; almost at peace as I listen to the rustle of fabric as Carol shifts in her seat. I close my eyes.

"Katie?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you mind if I ask you something?"

I crack one lid open, taking in Carol's genuinely curious expression.

"Not at all," I say, tempted to close my eyes again, but opening them both for the sake of politeness.

"What's…and I hope you excuse my boldness…what's going on with you and Carl?"

_Oh, shit._

Acid churns inside my stomach, twisting and coiling like a snake while my brain starts to hum—loud and high, perfect pitch, a flawless A-flat. I have to shake my head to clear the sound and swallow hard to make sure I don't projectile vomit all over the woman in front of me. I take a shuddering breath.

"What do you mean?" I inquire in an unexpectedly steady voice.

"Well," Carol twists her fingers in her lap while giving me a timid smile. "You two seemed so close for the longest time. Inseparable, in fact, but…not anymore." I almost let out a soul-lifting shriek of relief, and the older woman chuckles for a moment. "It was so adorable, him tagging along behind you wherever you went. Like a little puppy, you know? But now, the two of you barely talk. What happened? Did you have an argument?"

"No," I reassure her. "Not at all. Carl's a curious kid. I think he just wanted to get to know me—make sure I was right for the group and all. Then, I guess he got bored and moved on. Boys can be like that sometimes." My chest swells with pride at my story, and it makes me glad to see I haven't lost my touch in the past few months. I sure as hell couldn't tell her the truth, now could I? That we don't speak anymore because I've been avoiding him like the plague; that I have absolutely no self-control and willingly and enthusiastically shoved my tongue down his throat while shamelessly groping him through his jeans. No, sir. I'll keep that to myself, thank you very much.

"I don't know…" her voice takes on an odd, mischievous lilt. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say he was sweet on you."

_Goddammit! _

I force a laugh.

"I doubt it, I'm way too old. Besides, I thought he had a thing for Beth."

"I thought that too, at first. But he didn't take to Beth like he took to you. And I've seen him looking at you with those huge star-struck eyes when he thinks nobody's looking." She nudges me with her foot tauntingly.

_Oh, God…is it that obvious?_

"Oh, God…" I groan, wishing more than ever that I could cover my face with my hands. Carol titters. And even though my mind is swimming in panic and horror, I realize how rare it is for the short-haired woman to display that kind of humor. So, I cherish it. Memorize it. The tinkle of her laugh, the upturn of her lips, the little crinkles at the corners of her eyes. She is so beautiful, and she doesn't even know it. It's sad, in a way, that she can't see herself the way everyone else sees her.

"I'm just teasing you, Katie," she says. "Besides, I think it's kind of cute—a young boy pining after a grown woman. They never change, you know. Except when they get older, they're wishing for one of those slim, teenage girls and not the other way around.

I hoot for real this time.

"Ha! Isn't that the truth?!"

* * *

It's late. Or early, depending on how you look at it. Carol's shift has finally ended, which puts the time at just past two in the morning. I think I was asleep, or maybe half asleep, seeing as I could hear the patter of footsteps as my next watch wandered in. I thought it might have been Beth by the light quality of movement, but a few seconds later, one word proved me wrong.

"Katie?"

It's Carl.

_No, no, no, no, no. Why would they send him? He's too young for guard duty! I can't do this. I can't, I can't, can't look at him, can't talk to him, no, no I can't, please no. _

"Are you awake?" he whispers.

I am. Wide awake, and debating on whether or not to feign a deep slumber to keep avoid him like I have been.

"I know you're not," he continues. "I can tell."

_Damn that kid and his observation skills._

"How?" I ask. My eyes are still shut tight as he scoffs.

"Your feet twitch."

I impulsively bolt upright, eyelids shooting open; slightly appalled and far too offensive.

"They do not!" I cry.

"Yeah, they do." He smiles at me, but still he seems miserable—eyes bloodshot and red-rimmed, vibrant in my vision even in the darkness. Everything about him is vibrant. From the filth in his hair

_Where's your hat, Carl? _

to the stains on his shirt, to the almost invisible freckles adorning his dirt covered skin.

We stare at one another and

_**How could you forget how breathtaking he is?**_

my heart leaps into my mouth as a stray tear paves its way down Carl's cheek. Did I do that?

Just the thought…

_**Him underneath you, sighing…whimpering…begging…**_

Me hurting him that much—to the point of tears—is agonizing. But, that's what I've been doing, isn't it? Every time I pass him in silence. Every time I cut his words short. Every time I dodge his gaze at dinner…and every time I hurt myself…I hurt him too. Didn't I once say that hurting Carl in any way was like me being skinned alive on the scale of unbearable pain?

_Oh, what a weak comparison that one was. _

My chest burns. Aches. Like I stabbed myself under the collarbone rather than along my arms. My blood is frozen, my organs ice—black ice—searing and cracking; falling apart.

Another tear cascades from those cerulean irises.

_**Do you see?**_

_** Do you see what you do?**_

_** Do you see what you are? **_

Everything hurts, from the soles of my feet to the edge of my scalp. Sharp, agonizing pains under each muscle, flowing through each vein, pulsing from my heart.

_You can't hurt this much and live. Nobody can hurt this much and live. It will kill you. It will __**destroy**__ you._

"Carl…" I breathe, his name a murmur on my lips; lighter than a kiss from the midnight wind. He sniffles, twin droplets tumbling along flushed skin. He shakes his head as if saying 'no'.

I can't breathe.

"I…" the words fall short.

I can't breathe.

_I can't. _

_I can't. _

_I can't I can't I can't _

_Ican'tcan'tcan'tcan'tcan'tICAN'T! _

I last a full three seconds before I break—and there is no warning. No stuffy nose, no little snivels. I go from slowly churning pond water straight into a full blown hurricane. I jerk up hard, smashing my head against the bars as I try to hold back the sudden overwhelming force of my sob.

_Or is it a scream? _

I see stars when it happens again. And again. And again. And I can hear these _noises—_

_ From me?_

—pitiful for a child, let alone an adult; and my breath continuously hitches and hiccups, squeaks and crackles. My face is warm and dripping wet as saliva gathers in my mouth, threatening to spill over because I can't seem to calm myself long enough to remember how to swallow. Can this even be considered crying anymore? People don't cry like this. Not this hard. Not this strong.

"Shhh…" Carl's in front of me, kneeling over my legs and sitting almost directly in my lap. He cradles my face in his hands, brushing water away with his thumbs while ignoring miniscule, silent whimpers of his own. "Shhhh…" he hushes gently. "It's okay."

I furiously shake my head in denial.

"It's okay," he murmurs. His arms wrap around me, all thin and gangly like a growing boy should be.

"I'm s-sorry!" I basically wail, but my voice is muffled by Carl's shoulder as he squeezes me tighter. "I-I'm sorry…" I try to glance at his face, but my vision is blurred and my eyes are tender, sensitive to any movement or color other than black. I cough. My lungs start to expand again. I swallow. "I'm sorry."

Suddenly, there's a sharp click follow by feeble tugging and a coarse grinding noise. Then, my arms are free as nimble fingers untangle the thick twine used to hold me in place. The knife I didn't know Carl had clatters to the ground as he gently

_so, so gently_

_**He could have easily stabbed you in the back.**_

_I'd deserve it._

grasps my wrists, one in each hand, and guides them around to rest where my lap would be; which now happens to be his upper thighs. He rubs the rope burn like he did my cheeks, carefully with his thumbs in a slow circular motion. My weeping is settling down as quickly as it showed up, the shaking falling under control, and those hideous noises are once again trapped inside my throat. Yet, tears continue to fall, from me and from him, but they're slow—like a soft, cool rain.

"I'm sorry," I mutter again, and my gaze darts from my hands to his eyes to the stitches on my arms, then to his eyes and back to the stitches again. The bleeding has stopped, but the wounds are matted and dried, and seem to look a lot worse than they really are. I keep staring, as if I'm studying the most difficult textbook known to mankind until Carl's head blocks my view. He dips down, so quick and so sure, and presses a delicate kiss to the largest of what will soon become scars. My heart flutters.

"Don't be…" he says softly, brushing his lips against another line.

"Carl…"

"Shhh…" He rises up, clenching his legs tighter around mine and locking our eyes together. His expression is old for someone so young—calm and endlessly patient—yet at the same time, serious and tremendously stern. And, for a split second, he looks so much like Rick that I'm stunned into silence.

"Katie…" His tone is reminiscent of a tired father scolding his child for feeding the family dog under the dinner table. "We need to talk. Okay?"

I nod my head.

He nods back once before easing up, gradually lifting onto his knees and up to his feet, tugging me along with him.

"Not here though," he whispers. His hold on me is still gentle, yet firm enough to unnerve a microscopic part of my mind. I want to shake it away, but my body feels like dampened wood. Heavy and sodden, uncooperative. "Follow me."

I don't think I have much choice.

* * *

I'm scared to ask Carl how he found out where the Solitary Confinement cells are in this beast of a prison. We are nowhere near our block, but rather on the opposite side of the building and two stories up. It's a sorry excuse for a room, barely enough space for one person, let alone two, but I guess that's kind of the point, isn't it?

The door is made of a thick, solid steel, painted white and illuminated like a ghost in tunnel of Carl's flashlight. In fact, everything here is white. The walls, the ceiling, the floors, the bedding. There are no windows. No typical penitentiary commodities such as a sink or a toilet. How long do people last in here? How long before the white seeps in, tainting your dreams, corroding your sanity, diluting your blood? With the door cracked open less than an inch, I already feel trapped—like a caged animal waiting for slaughter.

_You wouldn't last a week in a place like this. _

Carl leads me to the bed, taking a seat with one leg folded underneath him, leaving just enough room for me to squeeze in between his body and the wall. He sets the light on the other side of him, aiming it off into a corner so that we can still see each other without being blinded. That look—that odd Rick-like look—is still painted across his face like cheap makeup. I wish I could wipe it off the same way.

"You've been…avoiding me…" the brunet starts, finally releasing my wrists to wring his hands together. He can't look me in the eye.

I don't respond.

"I had this…all planned in my head, but now…" He sighs and cracks his knuckles. "Katie…can we just…be honest? Just for a little while?"

"What do you mean?" I ask, my voice breaking worse than my older brother's during puberty. I clear my throat.

"I mean…No lies…no stories. No…leaving anything out. I…I think we need answers. Both of us. But we aren't going to get any if we can't…trust each other."

He looks at me now, the blue of his irises brightened by the mixture of black and white engulfing the two of us. He is so beautiful.

"After today," I say, reaching out and brushing a thumb against the roughened skin of his elbow, "I think you could ask me to saw my arms off and use them as batons to attract any nearby Walkers…and I would do it without a second thought."

_Anything for you. I would do __**anything **__for you, Carl. Even my Elliot didn't get that. _

His breath hitches in a slight laugh as he grins.

"What?"

"Nothing," He shakes his head. "You're just…kind of weird, sometimes. I think I forgot that in the past few weeks."

"Oh, thanks." I say sarcastically, resisting the urge to smile as he takes my hand in his own and places them in the gap between our bodies. He shakes his head again.

"I like it," he mutters.

Carl's eyes are too intense for me to look at now—too deep, too aerated, too _knowing_. I clear my throat a second time. Or is it my third?

_Nervous habits are the hardest to break. _

"How did you…want to do this?" I question, dropping my gaze to our entwined fingers. It doesn't help my nerves or my hysterically trembling heart.

_God, I'm like a little kid holding hands with her first crush. _

"By asking. And answering."

"By asking what?"

"Anything."

Well, if that isn't the most terrifying thing I've ever heard, I don't know what is.

"Want me to go first?" Carl keeps his tone low, as if we're still only a few dozen feet from our group rather than out of screaming-shot—let alone earshot.

"Please, do."

"Okay…" He squeezes my hand tighter. "Honest, remember?"

"Honest," I repeat.

"Promise?"

"I promise."

Carl sighs, and in my mind's eye I can picture the heavy rise and fall of his chest; the deep shadows falling across the hollow of his throat and along the prominent ridge of his collarbones. Did I mention that he's beautiful?

"In the watchtower…"

My pulse immediately accelerates, a cold sweat breaking out across my forehead and my back.

"Did you…did you like it?"

_Straight to point as always, right Carl? _

"I…" I want to tell him no, that it was all a mistake—a misunderstanding—but

"You promised," he reminds me.

I promised.

_** Who would have thought that when the dead rise and the world falls, the thing you fear most is something as simple as the truth. **_

"Yes…" I murmur. And I want to look at the boy holding on to me, to see his face and the emotions there—astonishment, disgust, joy…which one?—to check his reaction time…measure his response. I can't. There is a weight heavier and more forceful than Earth's gravity holding my head down, crushing my shoulders, stealing the oxygen from my lungs.

_I'm terrified_.

"I liked it…" I go on, though I have no idea how or why. "A lot…"

"Then," Carl's voice his just as steady as before, his inflection the same and volume still below a whisper, "Why didn't you want to see me? If you liked it…why hide from me after?"

_That's an easy one._

"Because…I-I liked it…_too much_."

"What?"

I feel like I'm going to cry again—another sixty second hysteria that my body isn't ready for.

"I took it too far, Carl," I confess. "I never should have…touched you like I did. I had _no right_ to force that on you. Any of it."

Despite my almost ten year reign as a predator; despite all the shame, and the agony, and the countless sleepless nights…never in my life have I admitted that my actions are wrong. I never wanted to, because speaking about it…acknowledging it…that means that all of it is true.

_Reality, rather than another nightmare that you can wake from. _

"You feel guilty," Carl murmurs, deliberately shifting closer. We are now shoulder to shoulder, hands buried under our legs while still holding on to each other, and I have to fight to keep my sight downward as warmth brushes across my face with the exhale of his words.

"Yes…"

"But what if…what if I said I liked it too? Or that I wanted it to happen?"

One of the worst things about the monster—or maybe it's just a part of being me—is the roller-coaster of emotions that can suffocate you in less than a second. I am nervous, and angry, remorseful and sad, yet at the same time struck by cupids bow. I am fluttery, love-struck, and even now, lust-driven. Everything about me is frayed and worn from the past few hours, but still brimming with despicable hope and excitement. Carl's declaration—because, in the end, that's what it is—is being registered by every misguided feeling and scrambling in my mind. I am torn between rationality and impulsiveness. Morals and pleasures.

"I'd say…" I give in and raise my head only to find Carl's face mere inches from my own. "You're too young to know what you really want." I clench his hand and let it go, wriggling it out from between our bodies to place it on my favorite spot—his cheek. "There's too much to learn, too much to _feel_, for you to be able to tell the difference between curiosity and true yearning. And I am the wrong person to gain experience with. I…"

_**Don't finish that sentence. **_

"You?" The young Grimes is staring me down with furrowed brows and narrowed eyes. Under my fingertips, his jaw is tense, clenching and releasing in either frustration or anticipation.

Confessing felt good the first time, so the second time should be fine, right?

"I already know that I want more than you should be willing to give. Five minutes together, and you'll be in over your head."

_Just like in the tower. _

Carl doesn't hesitate in his response. "In this world, I'm old enough to take a life, and I've done it more times than I can count. But I'm too young to feel something good for once?"

_That's so true, it actually hurts. _

"Katie…I like you. I mean _really _like you. Wouldn't it be better for me to have something with a girl that I know cares about me and is older instead of someone I'm not sure about that's younger?"

**Yes.**

_Fuck._

And there's the look. The peek through the eyelashes. The lower lip caught between teeth. The first good stance I've taken in my entire life wavers. Why are we even having this conversation when he already knows he can bend me to his will without any effort?

"You already said that you'd…cut your arms of for me. So…will you give me this? Will you let me decide?"

"I…"

_No._

_**Yes.**_

_What am I supposed to say? _

Over time I have realized that life is nothing but a game of chess.

I am a pawn, and fate is the player. And from the very moment I laid my eyes on Carl Grimes, my actions were planned and made. Every struggle, every wish, was wasted on a God that doesn't listen or doesn't exist. Which leaves the next and only move a pawn is able to make on a board of black and white: Forward.

"Only if we do it my way."

* * *

Author's Note: This originally ended very...maturely...but trust me it didn't fit and we'll get there later. Soon, but later. As always, Comments, questions, love or hate are all welcomed and encouraged. See you next time!


	4. Chapter 4 Part 1

Author's Note: You know what sucks? Getting out of the hospital (Don't worry, I'm okay now.) only to find your inbox flooded with hate mail for taking so long. Talk about a downer. But, who cares?! I'm back! It's not the long chapter I promised—in fact, it's not even a full chapter, it's about one-third of a chapter. (And it has not been beta'd, I'm sorry my awesome, lovely AgentBSmith I love you! Please excuse any errors!) Because the next ten pages haven't been finalized, and I don't post anything I'm not proud of, and I didn't want to keep anyone waiting any longer. So, consider this a…peek. A little taste of what's to come. Happy Reading!

Note: Before posting the second half of chapter four, I will have a page devoted to personally thanking all my reviewers. I know I normally do it in this section, but there are so many of you and I LOVE IT! You guys are amazing! On with the story!

* * *

Insisting on making the first move when you don't have a plan is pretty much the decision equivalent of driving down to Ikea, picking up a 'Build Your Own Coffin' set (which I would not be surprised to see in a store that is an endless maze of self-assembled everything), and attempting to put it together in your living room after you've chased a six-pack of beer with a fifth of vodka.

_/Beer before liquor, you've never been sicker_. /

The only possible outcome is a lot of agony and a poorly hand-crafted grave.

…I have no idea where I was going with that comparison, but the fact of the matter is that I'm completely miserable.

Yet, at the same time, ridiculously happy.

And…disoriented?

Terrified?

Flabbergasted?

Walking around blindly in a constant haze of 'What the Fuck?'

That makes sense, right?

"Katie…" Hershel fixes me with one of his forever-patient looks as he lays a hand on my shoulder. "I want you to know…that I will never understand what you just said to me."

He slowly smiles, skin stretching, eyes twinkling merrily, and I can't help but grin bashfully back at him. Hershel Greene is a wonderful man. Wise. Strong. Filled with the compassion and understanding that can only be learned over the course of a lifetime. He is everybody's grandfather and therapist—our healer and our guidance in times of struggle.

Which is why, after four agonizing days of mental turmoil, I decided to come to him with my problem. Or rather, a toned down, slightly fabricated version of my problem.

"Maybe I need to start over," I mumble before clearing my throat. "Okay…What do you do when…when you told someone you'd do something that you know is a bad idea? I mean, I know normally I'd say I changed my mind," My words speed up of their own accord. "but they're _so excited_, and I'd feel horrible if I went back on my word and it's not like it's anything really _dangerous_, just stupid, and I don't…I just…yeah." I pause for a moment before finishing with a meek, "Is that better?"

The old man nods his head, and I notice that the movement seems to loosen his ponytail slightly. I've entertained the idea of offering to cut it several times, but honestly, seeing such a southern gentleman sport that type of hairstyle is too delightful an experience to ruin.

"Would I be correct in assuming that this someone is Carl?"

"Of course," I reply with a dry chuckle, watching as he leans forward slightly in his seat on the lower bunk. "Who else?"

"It's nothing dangerous?" he clarifies. I nod. "Is it something that's going to hurt someone else?"

_Not hurt, per say. Just…_

_**Just what? Traumatize? **_

I shake my head 'no.'

"Is going to threaten our food rations?"

I laugh at that, the sound bouncing off the solid brick around us and echoing back. It appears Carl and I have earned a reputation.

_Understandable considering the amount of oatmeal and flour you wasted. _

"No. No, the food's safe, I promise."

"Is it going to make anyone angry?"

_Uh…._

_**Not if they don't find out. **_

"I don't think so."

"Then, what's the problem?"

"I guess…" I hesitate. "I guess there isn't one."

"Katie," Hershel moves his hand to grab for the set of crutches propped against the wall. "you and Carl are always stirring things up around here. Keeps things interesting. There's no need to start doubting yourself now. Whatever you two have come up with, I'm sure we're all ready for it." The old man stands gracefully, as if he's been without a leg since birth and wielded supports for just as long. His adaptability is astonishing—worthy of the greatest admiration.

Wait.

No need to start doubting myself?

Is that what he thinks?

That I'm scared of where I sit in the group now that I've lost it?

_You probably should be._

_**He has no idea what he's encouraging. **_

Shit.

I catch myself before I falter, plastering on the most convincing smile I have as I rise with him.

"Thanks, Hershel."

It looks like I'll have to figure this out on my own.

_**You're going to hell.**_

I know.

* * *

It rained today. A real Georgia rain—the kind that fills the air with atmosphere and electricity; that veils the sky in shadow and turns day into never-ending night. The prison is an amplifier, a sound system devoted to thunder and howling winds, tears of the earth and startled infant cries. It is haunting, yet beautiful—a reminder of just how powerful the world is outside the limits of humanity.

"I hope there's not a twister."

Maggie wraps her arms around herself as gooseflesh breaks across her skin, the thin material of her tank-top offering virtually no protection against the cool weather.

"I don't think there will be," I reassure her. "It hasn't warmed up enough."

Granted, a tornado will show up whenever it damn well pleases, but it doesn't seem like that type of storm. There's no heaviness outside. No ominous tinges of green. And it's loud—the land rife with insects and small mammals calling out or seeking shelter. If there were a tornado on the way, the land would be silent. Immobile.

I take a deep breath and run my eyes over the Walkers accumulating on the fence-line. I count are sixteen. Three more than there were this morning, but less than I expected considering that thunder obviously agitates them. It makes them active, makes them mobilize—as if they're searching for the source of the blast even though it can never be found.

"How many did Rick say had to build up before we start putting them down?" I ask.

"Fifteen to twenty, but it looks like the boys already have it covered."

I take a step closer to the railing to look down into the gated pathways that set our perimeter. And, of course, because God hates me, the first person I see is Carl.

A very wet, knife wielding, blood-splattered Carl.

_Christ. _

He rubs a hand across the side of his face, most likely to brush away the water accumulating there, but the movement leaves a streak of crimson in its place.

_Christ!_

It's a good thing I'm twenty feet above him, or else I might just…

_Just what?_

_**Kiss him?**_

_**Violate him?**_

_**Rob him of his innocence?**_

All of the above, please.

Even from this distance, I can see the definition of Carl's shoulder blades underneath his now translucent t-shirt. The one with the paw-print. His favorite.

_And now, your favorite. _

Because it's clinging to his torso like a second skin, sending my thoughts into overdrive as I picture what he would look like in front of me—soaked to the bone, every inch of his upper body involuntarily on display, hair clinging to his cheeks and neck _**as his lips part, whispering your name, panting, fingers holding you tight, eyes hazy before they flutter shut in ecstasy, flesh warm as you taste, as you feel, as you…**_

Daryl suddenly blocks Carl from my view, standing behind him to jab a blade through the thin wiring of the fence, taking down a female Walker with unparalleled accuracy. I jump; backing up until my body rests against the wall of the tower, heart pounding in my ears.

_**You're breaking.**_

I know I am. Whatever shred of self-control I fooled myself into believing I had is evaporating faster than a puddle in July. Ever since our talk, every single moment has been smothered by his presence, even if it's only in my mind. Simple things, things like stretching or eating, or hell, even walking, replay behind my eyes over and over, like a slideshow that becomes more sultry and erotic the longer you look at it. Each second with him is _agonizing_, but not nearly as unbearable as pushing him away.

I sigh and cross my arms, hoping Maggie won't notice my change in demeanor. I want to do it—God, more than anything in this world, I want to do it—I want to give Carl everything he asks for and more. I want to claim him, to own him, to keep him as mine and mine alone.

_**You could.**_

But could I really?

Could I live with the guilt that comes with such a decision? The shame? And if the others found out…then what? This group…this prison…they're all I have. It's the end of the world, after all. The only thing waiting outside these walls is fear, starvation, and a gruesome death.

"Hey, Katie," Maggie pokes her head out of the doorway to the tower, face pink and smiling brightly. When the hell did she go inside? "If you don't mind, I'm gonna run off with Glenn for little bit. Carl's gonna take my place, okay?"

Really?

I mean, _really?_

_Fuck you, Jesus. Or God. Or Buddha, or Allah, or whoever the fuck runs this place. _

_**How much longer do you think you can last?**_

"You two have fun," I say with a grin.

"Oh, we will," she chirps back.

Three seconds later, Carl peeks around the brunette's shoulder, more striking and deliciously drenched than I ever could have dreamed. His face is a mirror image of when we first met—all teeth and blinding cerulean eyes and adorable freckled cheeks.

"Hey," he greets.

The area between my legs throbs.

I wonder if a headfirst dive over the railing would be enough to kill me.

* * *

Author's note: Reviews I can has, please? It feeds the monster, and makes future chapters oh so nice.


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